


a gift like joy

by shellybelle



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint Barton is a good guy, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, The Good Ship C/N Promptathon of Magic and Joy, implied dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellybelle/pseuds/shellybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not often that SHIELD requires Natasha to use some of her more specialized skills. When they do, Clint has learned what to do—even if Natasha disagrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a gift like joy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for rayruz, who gave this prompt in the Good Ship C/N Promptathon of Magic and Joy: _Clint comforts Natasha (non-sexually) after a mission requires her to sleep with someone for information_.

The SHIELD handler manual has a section on  _proper handling of an asset following missions of a sexual nature_. There are two sub-sections, titled  _intentional sexual contact_ , which is a nice way of saying  _how to handle the agent you just whored out_ and  _unintentional sexual contact_ , which is a nice way of saying  _how to handle the agent you didn’t mean to whore out but got sexually assaulted doing your dirty work_.

 

They don’t make a manual for partners of SHIELD agents, but Clint thinks that maybe they should.

 

It’s an unspoken rule in their relationship to give the other a heads up if a mission’s going to turn sexual.  _Common courtesy_ , Clint called it.  _Clinginess_ , Natasha shot back, but Clint talks her out of her shell and she agrees. They keep all of the rules of their relationship on sticky notes in their bedroom, and  _no secrets_ is sandwiched between  _put the toilet seat down_ and  _meatless Mondays_.

 

They don’t get put on to sexual missions anymore, not since they told Coulson they were exclusive—it’s standard SHIELD policy to let partnered agents off the hook for missions like that. But there are some things that only Natasha can do, some marks that SHIELD doesn’t trust anyone else to pick off and still come home in one piece, and sometimes they call Natasha in.

 

When they do, Clint’s learned to be ready.

 

Clint waits for her on the couch. She never comes home quietly after missions like this, just slams the door and kicks off her high heels, crosses the living room to him and pulls his book out of his hands, straddling his hips and kissing him hard. It’s the first step, he knows, the first thing she needs, to get the taste of someone else out of her mouth. He indulges her, always, rests his hands lightly on her waist, not pushing her away, not pulling her closer. When she tries to reach for his belt, though, he stops her, pushes her gently back. “This isn’t what you want, Tash,” he says, and she argues, always, says  _I need you_ and  _it’s only supposed to be you_  and  _please, come on, fix it_.

 

He shakes his head, climbing off the couch and pulling her up with him, guiding her into the bedroom. He turns on the shower and helps her undress, then kisses her forehead and steps back. She tries to pull him under the spray with her, and Clint says “no.” He closes the lid of the toilet and sits down, tells her about his day—the junior agents he trained on the archery range, the practical joke he played on Fury, his campaign to improve the food in the Helicarrier mess halls. Natasha is quiet, mostly, laughs a little now and then, but mostly it’s Clint’s voice and the sound of running water, the occasional splash as Natasha shifts or turns.

 

She climbs out of the shower and he hands her a towel, lets her wrap it around her body before he drops another one over her head and rubs, playful, mussing her hair into a tumble of red curls. It earns him a smile and he leans down to kiss her cheek, leaving her to get dressed. By the time she comes out of the bedroom, dressed in comfortable jeans and one of his sweatshirts, he’s written a shopping list, waiting for her next to the door. Natasha says nothing, just plucks a few of their reusable shopping bags from the coat rack and slips her hand into his.

 

They go to the 24-hour grocery store down the street, close enough to walk. Natasha threads her arm through Clint’s and lays her head on his shoulder as they walk, and Clint closes his hand over hers. They wander through the aisles, Natasha holding the list, Clint pushing the cart. Natasha inspects produce with the same critical eye she turns on her marks and weapons; Clint plucks a Milky Way when Natasha’s not looking and slips it into the cart. She rolls her eyes at him when the cashier rings it up, but he gives her a bite of it as they leave the store, and her lips turn up at the corners as she takes it from him, her lips just brushing the tips of his fingers. It’s as accidental as anything she ever does, not meant to arouse, and they hold hands all the way home.

 

In the kitchen Natasha puts away the groceries and Clint makes macaroni and cheese from a blue and orange box. He puts in just the right amount of butter to turn it the perfect shade of creamy orange, and Natasha steals noodles over his shoulder. “Stop that,” he tells her, so she kisses him instead, almost playful.

 

Clint ladles the pasta into bowls and they sit on the couch together, flipping channels. They watch last night’s Conan and drink $10.00 wine. When the dishes are empty, Clint challenges her to a game of Scrabble and loses spectacularly. Natasha laughs at him, not unkindly; they wash the dishes together.

 

They climb into bed together. Natasha strips down to her underwear but Clint leaves his t-shirt and sweatpants on, lets her curl into his arms and rest her head on his shoulder. He kisses her cheek and Natasha squeezes his arm. Clint turns off the light and listens to the sound of Natasha’s breathing, slow and even and easy. His night vision is excellent; he can see her eyes are dry. She runs her fingertips over the skin of his arm, says, “Clint.”

 

“I know,” he says, and in the dark, her lips curve in a smile.

 

SHIELD has a manual for its handlers. Clint has his own.

 

His is better.


End file.
